


Unexpected

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1918410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then John suggests something unexpected...</p><p>“I was thinking, if you…  What I mean is…”  John sighs.  He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and rubs at his eyes, pinches at the bridge of his nose.  Finally he takes a deep breath, drops his hand, looks at Sherlock again.  “You need to sleep, Sherlock, and I know you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since I moved back in.  You need your bed back.  So come back to your bed.  Get a good night’s sleep.  Come and keep me company at the same time.  Just until—well, you know—until these dreams stop.”</p><p>Sherlock blinks.  </p><p>John sighs.  “It’s the solution that makes the most sense.  Besides, it will give Mrs. Hudson something to coo to Mrs. Turner about.”</p><p>Sherlock’s brain whites out completely. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third installment of "The Homecoming" series. It will make more sense if you read "Enough" and "Fracture" first.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who is reading this series. I am just overwhelmed by your support and interest. Please forgive me for not responding to every one of your comments personally. I do so appreciate them, but my energy is limited, and it's currently split between my full-time job, my loved ones and my writing.
> 
> You are all perfectly lovely, though. So, thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!

And then John suggests something unexpected.

“Woo-hoo!”  Mrs. Hudson bustles in carrying her usual offerings of morning tea, toast, a little pot of strawberry jam on a mahogany tray.

John is sitting in his chair reading the morning paper.  He barely looks up as she enters, Sherlock notes, before turning his attention back to the dissection of the human heart in the tray before him.  John has seemed slightly disinterested, distracted and averse to any sort of socialization all morning.  That is why Sherlock is thrown by what comes out of his mouth next.

“My room…”

“Hmm?”  Mrs. Hudson is pouring his tea, adding cream.

“My room.  Those painters—they were supposed to be back, oh—what was it now?  A fortnight ago?  Still no sign.  Any word on that?”

Mrs. Hudson hands him his tea, bustles about spreading jam on toast, pouring another cup for Sherlock.  “Sorry, dear.  I know the couch must be getting uncomfortable.  Unavoidable delays they keep saying.”

“Never said the couch.”  

Sherlock’s head snaps up.  

John is sipping at his tea.  “Unavoidable, hmm?”  He sounds doubtful, but there is a tinge of a smile in his tone.

“It seems so, unfortunately.”  Mrs. Hudson bustles into the kitchen, and lays a cup of tea on the table beside Sherlock.  She winks at him, and then glances down and turns a little pale at the sight of the experiment he’s got on. 

“Oh Sherlock, must you?  This early in the morning?”  She shakes her head and walks back into the sitting room.

“You don’t mind, do you John?  You’ve got a proper place to sleep, then.  It’s fine, isn’t it?  I do so worry about your leg, but as long as you’re not on the couch…  I’ll get after them again, though, don’t you worry.”

John takes a sip of tea.  “No rush.  Just thought I’d ask.”

And then Mrs. Hudson is off again, something about tea with Mrs. Turner next door, and a need to make biscuits for bridge that afternoon.

Silence reigns in the flat for a few minutes, save for the muffled traffic noise from the street and the clatter of a cat knocking about in the bins in the alley.

“You do realize she’s doing that on purpose?”

“Hmm?”  Sherlock carefully slices into the left ventricle.  

“The delay with the painters.  Keeping me out of my room.  She’s doing it on purpose.”

Sherlock feels a strange prickle of heat rise from his chest up his neck.  “Why on earth would she do that?”  He keeps his eyes trained on the organ in front of him.

“I think it’s her way of trying to push us together.”

Sherlock swallows dryly.  The heat starts to travel to his cheeks, the tips of his ears.  He should say something sarcastic, he should feign some sort of half-bored tone.  That is the game they play, that is what John expects.  He needs to say something, anything, but his mind is blank.

He hears John get up, hears him go to the breakfast tray, spread another piece of toast with jam.  A plate suddenly appears on the table beside him, and John, hovering, looking over his shoulder.  “That’s disgusting,” he offers.  

Still Sherlock can’t think of a thing to say.  John smells like soap and clean cotton, tea and jam.  John is standing close enough that he can feel the warmth of him, the hum of the aliveness of him.

“Your bed,” John says after a moment or two of silence in which he hasn’t moved a single centimeter.  “I assume you do want to sleep in it again at some point?”

“It’s fine.”  Finally something for him to say.  It is fine.  Quite fine.  He has no intention of letting John sleep on the couch.

“It is rather, yeah.  Have you ever slept in that bed upstairs.  It’s bloody uncomfortable compared to yours.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm…”  Sherlock fakes distraction, but he’s utterly addled now, and he’s fairly sure that there is no point in continuing what he is doing.  He’s not really absorbing any of it.  His attention is focussed solely on John.  The nearness of John.  The scent of John.  The warmth of John.

“You could have it back, you know.”

“What back?”

“Your bed.”

“No.  It’s fine.  I’ll not have you sleeping on the couch.  You know how stiff you get.”

John sighs.  Sherlock can’t bring himself to look up.

“Last week,” John finally continues after a moment of silence in which he takes a sip of tea from the cup in his hand, and then reaches down and takes a bite out of the slice of toast he had presented to Sherlock a moment before.  “Sleeping in the loo…”

“Yes, I’m sure your back is still protesting.”

“Sort of.  Yeah.  But that’s not what I…”

“John, I am rather busy.  Does this conversation have a point, or…”

Another sigh.  “It does actually.  And if you’d stop stabbing at that bloody heart for a moment, and look at me, then maybe I could…”

Sherlock _is_ stabbing.  He’s unfocussed.  His hands are trembling.  It comes as no surprise then, when the scalpel slips.  He drops it with a clatter and a small hiss of pain. 

“Idiot,” John’s tone is fond.  “I hope that organ’s clean.  Did you get it from a reputable source?”

“Of course I did!”  Sherlock snaps, as he scrambles to his feet and heads for the sink.  He turns on the faucet full force and tears off the now ruined latex glove before plunging his finger under the stream.  Blood swirls down the drain.

“Here, let me see it.”  John hovering again.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s really not, Sherlock.  Let me see. it.  You may need stitches.”

“It’s fine.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock feels the heat return to his cheeks.  He turns silently, and petulantly thrusts his hand in John’s direction.  Blood drips onto the floor.

“Jesus.”  John snatches the tea towel off of the counter and wraps it around his finger, squeezing hard.  

Sherlock can’t breathe.  He feels a little heady.  He feels hot.

“Sit down,” John orders.

Sherlock returns to the table, pulls out a chair and does as he’s told.  John follows, pulls out another opposite and leans in, knees pressed against his.  He takes Sherlock’s hand into both of his, unwraps the towel and scowls down at the wound, weeping blood onto the white linen.  

John shakes his head.  “Keep pressure on that.  It’s a good clean cut, but you could probably still use a stitch or two.  Do you still keep a suture kit in the medicine cabinet?”

Sherlock nods.

John leaves, comes back, sits down, cleans the wound, sprays a little topical anesthetic on it, stitches—one, two, three total in the end.  It hurts horribly, and Sherlock’s hand is still trembling, but John is still holding it, too.  John doesn’t need to be holding his hand, and yet he is.

“You okay?”

Sherlock stares down at his hand cradled in both of John’s and nods.

“You’re panicking.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up despite himself.  “I’m not panicking.  Why would I be panicking?  I’m fine.  I’m perfectly fine.  It’s just a small cut. ”  Too many words tumbling out too quickly.

The corner of John’s mouth twitches upward.  “Can I finish what I was going to say before?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Last week.  Sleeping in the loo.  That was…”  John takes a deep breath.  “It easier.  It was better.  When I fell back asleep, as uncomfortable as it was, I still slept better than I have in—well, in quite a while, to be honest.  I think it was having someone else there.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to this.  John’s eyes are searching his.  Sherlock knows he should be giving some sort of reaction, but he doesn’t know where John is going with things, and he doesn’t know how he feels.  John may have been right.  Panic may actually be a fairly accurate deduction of his mental state.  But why?  Why panic?  This is John, and…

“I was thinking, if you…  What I mean is…”  John sighs.  He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and rubs at his eyes, pinches at the bridge of his nose.  Finally he takes a deep breath, drops his hand, looks at Sherlock again.  “You need to sleep, Sherlock, and I know you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since I moved back in.  You _need_ your bed back.  So come back to your bed.  Get a good night’s sleep.  Come and keep me company at the same time.  Just until—well, you know—until these dreams stop.”

Sherlock blinks.  

John sighs.  “It’s the solution that makes the most sense.  Besides, it will give Mrs. Hudson something to coo to Mrs. Turner about.”

Sherlock’s brain whites out completely.  John says other things, but he doesn’t hear them.  John stops talking.  John is staring at him.  Has he been asking him a question?  Is John waiting for some sort of answer, or just a comment?  What is he supposed to do?  What is he expected to say?

“A simple _yes_ or _no_ will suffice.”  John smiles.  He looks amused, but then sobers a little when Sherlock fails to offer any kind of response.  “And I _am_ honestly fine with either answer.”

Sherlock’s face feels hot.  “Yes,” he finally manages.  “Yes.  That’s fine.”

“Okay.  Fine.  Good.  That’s settled then.  Maybe you should, uh—maybe you should leave that heart alone and come and eat some breakfast.  I’d sort of advise keeping your finger away from pools of blood until it heals.”

“Hmm?  Oh.  Yes.  Right.  Breakfast.  Fine.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t leave the flat all day.  John watches loads of pointless telly.  Sherlock takes the opportunity to work on a case that Lestrade has been pestering him about for weeks.  He’s not all that interested, but Lestrade won’t let up and so he finally decides to focus on the case if only as a means of distracting himself from what is really on his mind.

John goes to bed first.  He says goodnight, just as though it is any other night, as though he hasn’t changed everything with this wholly unexpected suggestion of his.  He walks down the hall like every other night since he came back, but this time he leaves the door open the smallest crack.  Sherlock leans over a little to glance down the hallway.  The light in his room flicks on.  He sees John pass by the crack in the door, stripping his shirt off as he goes.  Sherlock snaps his attention back to the journal in his lap.  

Should he follow?  John specifically said that this arrangement was due to the nightmares.  He wanted Sherlock there to prevent them, so he should go to bed now, too.  But he’s in the middle of reading an article on the influence of environmental temperature and body water content on desiccation, and it could have very real application for the case at hand.

He could take it with him.  Could he read in bed?  Would it keep John awake?  Would John mind?  

Yes.  It would be useful to approach this first night with the buffer of the reading material.  Like when one is forced to take the tube—book as shield.  One appears occupied.  People are less likely to feel the need to converse.  Yes, the article will come with him to bed.  If having the lamp on keeps John awake he’ll use a small torch.  Poor choice for his eyes, but it shouldn’t be too obtrusive.

Sherlock gets to his feet, walks down the hall with purpose.  He stops when he gets to the door.  He can see John’s legs under the coverlet.  He is sitting up on the side of the bed closest to the door, the lamp is on.  Sherlock pushes the door the rest of the way open with one finger and John looks up with a small smile.  “Checking emails.”  He explains, holding up his phone to illustrate the point.

“Oh.”  Sherlock nods.  “I—I sometimes read before I go to sleep.”

“Sure.”  John is looking back down at his phone again, typing.

“I’ll just…”  Sherlock walks into the room, around the bed, to the side furthest from the door, the side John is not occupying.  He sets the journal down on the pillow.  He realizes, suddenly that he is fully dressed.  

He’d not thought of this.  He doesn’t wear clothing to bed.  It twists, tangles in the bedclothes.  He gets too hot.  But now he will have to.  He may not sleep well as a result.  Also, he needs to change.  Does he just do it here, in front of John.  Does he excuse himself to the toilet?  Clearly he is overthinking the whole damn situation, but John should have been more clear on the parameters of their arrangement.  

He decides on the bath.  He brushes his teeth, uses the toilet, showers, all for good measure.  Best to make it look like a part of his normal evening routine.  Though, John isn’t wholly unperceptive; it is possible he has already noticed Sherlock’s usual evening routines and will know that tonight’s ablutions are a tellingly elaborate deviation.  It’s too late now, of course.  Sherlock returns to the bedroom.  John is scrolling through his Twitter feed. He glances up, smiles, goes back to whatever could possibly be of interest on Twitter.

Sherlock plumps his pillow against the headboard, crawls beneath the covers and goes back to reading.  Or at least he tries to.  It is very distracting having John sitting here, in his bed, this close, almost hip-to-hip.  _Why is the bed so small?  Was it always this small?_   John who is in his pajamas, at least Sherlock assumes he is.  He is wearing a T-shirt, which is all that is visible above the coverlet he has tucked around his legs.  Perhaps he is only in pants.  Could Sherlock have worn only pants?  That would have been far preferable to pajama bottoms.  No, it is doubtful John is in pants alone.  

It’s ridiculous and strange that John has even suggested this sleeping arrangement.  Sherlock can’t help but feel that he has missed something rather key in John’s psychological evolution over the last few months.  He seems almost completely nonplussed about candles on their table during drunken luncheons, holding Sherlock’s hand without reason, or playing into Mrs. Hudson’s constant assumptions about their relationship.  John’s behavior no longer fits into the template that Sherlock has developed for dealing with these sorts of delicate, relational type of circumstances.

“Greg says he’s texted you three times about the Swinburne case.”

“What?”

“Lestrade.  He’s texting me now because he says you haven’t responded to his question about the body in the Swinburne case.  What Swinburne case?  Have we got a case on?”

“I have a case on.”

John stares at him.  Sherlock can feel his eyes boring into the side of his head.

“Interesting article, that?” he finally asks.

“Yes, and applicable to the Swinburne situation, you may be interested to know.”

“Any particular reason why you are attempting to read it upside down?”

Sherlock scowls.  Upside down…  Really—quite ridiculous.  Upside down.  As if he would…

Oh.

He rights the document in his lap without comment and tries to concentrate on the content.  It really is quite important that he…

“Sherlock…”

“Hmm?”

“If this is—I can sleep on the couch.  It’s really not all that…”

“No.”  Sherlock’s eyes snap up.  “It—it’s fine.  If it helps.  It’s fine.

“Sure?”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock snaps.  He didn’t mean to snap.  Why is this so ridiculously difficult?  “It’s fine,” he repeats more softly.

John nods, smiles.  “Okay.  Well, I’m going to sleep.  If I—sometimes I can get a little violent when I wake up from—so just be careful, okay.”

Sherlock nods.  “I’ll just…”  He nods at the journal in his lap.   

“Sure.”  And John rolls onto his right side and goes still.

Sherlock stares down at the article.  _Words._ _Words.  Words._ He sighs.  He can’t focus.  He might as well go to sleep himself.  He shuts off the lamp, lies on his back in the dark and listens to John breathe.  He isn’t asleep yet.  His breathing isn’t even enough.  Is John listening to him, too?  Is he waiting for him to fall asleep?

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turns his head in the dark.  His eyes haven’t adjusted yet, and he can only see a dark silhouette of John.  “Hmm?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

“Any time.”  He whispers it without knowing why.

John is lying on his back, now.  Sherlock rolls onto his side facing him.  This is better.  John sleeps on his back because of the pain in his shoulder, the phantom pain in his leg.  Sherlock has always slept on his side.  

“Good-night,” John whispers back.

“Good-night.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slips into wakefulness slowly.

He is warm.  

He is safe.  

Everything is soft, quiet, right.

When he opens his eyes the bedroom is rose gold with morning light.

John is sleeping.

His theory was correct, it seems.  Having someone else present while he sleeps keeps the nightmares at bay.  Good.  That’s good.

He watches John.  His breathing is even.  His face relaxed.  He looks younger while he sleeps.  The ever present furrow between his brow smoothes out.  His mouth is lax.

It is early yet, but Sherlock can hear the knock of cupboard’s closing downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, the muffled rush of water in couple’s shower next door.  An ambulance racing up Glentworth St..

John stirs.  His nose wrinkles.  His eyes squeeze tight and then relax again.  His mouth opens and he takes in a deep breath, lets it out.  His eyes open.  He stares at the ceiling, blinks once, and then turns his head.  He smiles when he looks at Sherlock.

“Sleep okay?”

Sherlock nods.

“Good.  No dreams, I think.  At least none I remember.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.  And I didn’t keep you awake?”

“No.  You don’t snore John, you know that.”

“How would I know that.  I can’t hear myself sleeping now, can I?”

Sherlock scowls.  “Surely someone would have mentioned it.”

“Hmm.  Good point.”  John stares back up at the ceiling.  “That case.  The one Lestrade texted me about last night.  Any reason you kept me in the dark?”

“It’s boring, John.  I’ve been ignoring it for days because it was hardly worth my time.  I only took it up yesterday, because I needed…”  _Damn._

John’s head turns.  “you needed…?”

“I—I needed something to do.”  It is weak. John looks mildly suspicious, but mostly amused.

“Don’t keep me out of the loop, okay.  I want cases.  I sort of need cases.  Cases are good.”

“Oh.”  This is rather news to Sherlock.  He hasn’t been all that certain of how to proceed in that regard since John moved back in.  He’s tread very carefully.  

Things were so hard for so long, and John had said that he wanted things not to be.  So, Sherlock has been trying to interpret just exactly what that might mean, trying to anticipate what might qualify as hard and keep it as far away from John as possible.  He assumed cases fell into this category.  Danger.  Stress.  The potential for violence.  He should have known better.

“Yes.  Fine.  There are a few that look promising.”

“Good!”  John’s eyes turn back to his.  They light up.  John looks happy—almost excited—incandescent.  John looks—he looks…  

Eyes, and creases about them.  Rumpled hair, and mouth—and mouth saying—something.  Tongue darting out to moisten lips and—and—John moving.  Sitting up a little.  Propping himself up on his left elbow.  Shouldn’t.  Will hurt his shoulder.  John looking—looking, and lips parting.  Words.  Something.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks at the sound of his name.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?  What?  Oh.  Yes.  Fine.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirks up.

Sherlock aches.  It’s sudden, and completely overwhelming.  He fights to push it down.  But, John sees it.  He sees something.  Sherlock can see the look in John’s eyes shift and change.  He can feel a heat rise at his neck, move up into his cheeks.  John sees it, sees him flush like a nervous school boy.  John swallows, licks his lips.

Sherlock’s first instinct is to get up and away.  Anywhere but here.  His brain is completely shutting down, and John will—he’ll want something—he’ll expect some sort of response, but…  If he leaves John may think he doesn’t want this (what is _this_?!) and that would be more than a bit _not good_.  But if he stays, if something happens ( _what???_ ), then he—his brain won’t—and he can’t, because…

Everything snaps back into searing clarity the minute John places a hand on his arm.  His brow is furrowed.  He looks concerned.  No.  Worried.  “Hey,” he says—so soft.  “You want breakfast?”

Breakfast?  What?  No.  Not—no!

He really needs to say something.  But words seem beyond him at the moment.  This is frustrating in the extreme because if ever there was a time that words were needed now would be it.  John will get up now.  He will leave.  He will make tea.  Bloody useless tea!!

John is laying back down beside him, staring into his eyes like he is assessing him for brain damage.  John’s eyes flit back and forth looking for—for—what is he looking for?  

“Sherlock?”

Yes, John.  I do in fact like that you are staying.  I appreciate your closeness.  I don’t usually.  You are the exception—to almost everything it seems.  Why?  I don’t know why.  Yes, please.  Oh.  And that’s…

John’s hand against his cheek.  Good.  Should be too much, but…

“Sherlock.”

Take a deep breath.  “John.”

John smiles.  It’s tentative, a bit confused, but there is relief in it too.  “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?”

“No.”

John licks his lips again.  “Okay.”

“Just…”  Sherlock feels like he can’t breathe.  He feels like he is running out of time to form words, like tears are biting at the corner of his eyes and soon he is going to have to use whatever remaining energy he has to fight that, so.  A word.  Just a word, so that John knows.  

“Stay.”

“Stay?  Here?  In bed you mean?  A lie-in?”

“Just stay.”  He is crying.  He can feel it, and John is looking worried again.  And everything is wrong, all wrong, because this wasn’t supposed to be this way.  None of it was supposed to happen like this.  He had a plan.  Slow.  Good.  A step at a time.  A day at a time.  Make sure John was happy.  Comfortable.  Do it right.  Make things easy.  Everything was supposed to be…

John’s lips part and then press together again.  “I will.  I am.”  John inches closer.  

Too close.         

Warm.  Clean.  Perfect.  

No. 

Not close enough!

“Stay.”  Because no other word will come, and he is burying his face in John’s neck, and pulling John closer, closer, closer until he can’t tell where he ends and John begins.  The scent of them melds together and makes something new, and he can taste his tears on John’s skin, and the shudder of John’s breath ripple through his chest. 

“I will,” John repeats.  Lips moving against the shell of Sherlock’s ear.  Words a low murmur.  Better than a whisper.  

If John is shocked he’s giving no indication.  He’s not leaving.  He’s staying.  He is actually staying.  And Sherlock is doing everything wrong, but it doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t know why, but oh—oh…

John’s arms tighten around him, pull him closer ( _how?_ ).  John is saying things.  They are important things.  He needs to listen, but there is the thrum of John’s carotid pulse echoing against his lips, the rasp of the stubble on John’s jaw against his cheek.  There is the heat of John, pressing through fabric, licking against skin and—and…

“Tell me what you want.”  John’s mouth forming words against his temple.  John’s hands moving, one in his hair, one tracing lazy trails down his back.

“This.”

“Okay,”  John says and stays.  He waits.  He touches.  He breathes.  He says words.  He—oh—sometimes he presses his lips against the side of Sherlock’s head.  He tangles their legs together and synchronizes their breathing.  He pulls Sherlock under, down to deep places.  Quiet.  So quiet in his head with John here wrapped around him, whispering, touching, careful, easing him back up to the surface again.

He feels his brain reset, come back online bit-by-bit.  John is still there.  Still.  Breathing.  He’s not asleep.  He’s just waiting.

“Sorry.”  It is the first word Sherlock’s brain spews out.

“Why?”  murmured against his hair.  John’s voice fond, tender.

“This.  I—I didn’t mean to.  For it to be…”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I…”

“Sherlock.  It really is.  It’s fine.  It—it’s good.”

“Is it?”  _Good?  John thinks it’s Good.  Not just fine, but beyond fine._  

John pulls back a little.  His brows knit.  “Is it?”

“Yes…”  Sherlock breathes without thought.

John nods against the pillow.  “Good.”  He looks at Sherlock.  He look so serious.  “You know I’m here for good, this time, right?  You know I’m staying.”

“Are you?”

John nods.

“Good.”  Sherlock smiles.

John smiles back.  “Yeah.  It is.  Good to be home.”


End file.
